


Fifty Times

by After_Baker_Street



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Challenges, Chapters unrelated to other chapters, Come Swallowing, Depression, Emotional Sex, Erotic Poetry, Family, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Grief/Mourning, Hand Jobs, Joyful, Kissing, Love, M/M, Masturbation, Nightmares, Oral Sex, Pining, Poetry, Post Reichenbach, Pre and Post Reichenbach, Reunion Sex, Sexual Content, Sherlock's Hair, Unbearable sweetness, Vignette, Vignettes, and gorgeous feels, it's cold out, it's just lots of sex, orgasms galore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-11
Updated: 2013-09-09
Packaged: 2017-12-16 05:39:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 11,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/858471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/After_Baker_Street/pseuds/After_Baker_Street
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vignettes of fifty times John and Sherlock have particularly memorable sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. It's Nothing Like Love

**Author's Note:**

> Mistyzeo's excellent collection, Fifty Good Reasons, inspired me to start this challenge. I will be following some of the prompts for the 50 Reasons challenge, but many of them will be my own. 
> 
> I'll be updating frequently. If you have suggestions for prompts, please leave them in the comments. I may be swayed or inspired. I'd love your feedback, this level of smut is totally new to me! Future chapters will NOT be as angsty. (I'm sorry about your feels.)
> 
> Thanks to an anon reader for language pick (I finished this late at night and my conjugation was crap!). 
> 
> TW: infidelity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the brief hiatus, my work schedule is incredibly demanding. Not to worry - this challenge will be finished and my other fics completed. Thanks for bearing with me! I really appreciate your comments. 
> 
> Massive, unbelievably huge thanks to BettySwallocks for her terrific britpick/editing, and patience with my unpredictable schedule!

What I feel for John Watson is nothing like love. I should know, I’ve done my research (I always do my research).

I don’t want to shout it from any rooftops (triteness irritates me). I want to keep it secret, keep it hidden, somewhere dark and known only to me (keep it safe). I want to nurture it in quiet, wrap it in silk and soft wool.

Thinking of John does not make me feel light and airy, expansive. John is an anchor, he weighs down my heart and my every thought. I am tied to him, tied to the Earth, tied to something solid and unchanging. If I am with John, I will not float away on clouds (this bizarre metaphor for happiness confuses me), or something equally ephemeral; I am bound to life, bound to reality, and bound to righteousness in a way I never was before (though I was bound to rightness, it is easy to confuse the two).

It’s nothing like love, I want to consume him. I want to take him apart, see how he works, see where he hides his goodness. I want to unfurl John like a flag, naked and lashing in the wind. I want to hear him crack like a whip with a subsonic boom.

My mouth on John’s does not feel like romance; it feels like an explosion, like violence and rare earth magnets, like plate tectonics.

When John is inside me I do not hear music, the cacophony of a false angelic choir singing (too many sopranos: painful, ridiculous). I have blessed silence from the world. For once, I hear nothing. I feel nothing (nothing except John, warm like radiation, mysterious and constant). My screaming mind goes silent and I can concentrate on what matters, the harmonies of his heartbeat and breath. It is nothing like syrupy sweet and cannot be accompanied by a plinking piano and saccharine strings.

I cut myself once, on a shard of a broken window. No matter, pain is irrelevant (most times, anyway). My first reaction to the stripe of crimson was surprise. Some injuries can be like that, sudden and sharp enough that it is impossible to register them properly. I licked my arm out of instinct (humans, not so far from our animal ancestors, we lick our wounds both literally and metaphorically). I licked my arm and it tasted like John Watson. Had he somehow infected me, was he contagious? It was my own blood, my lifeblood, and it tasted of John. Does John taste of life?

John does not make me want to be a better man; he makes me a better man. Because John is perfect, I want him unhurt, even by me (but if there was a way to break down John’s whole world, and give it back to him so that everything he had, and everything he was, he had only because of me, and everything was me, I’d do it).

What I feel for John is nothing like love. When he was reciting words that weren’t his own, like a poorly-strung puppet, when I saw the terrible gift Moriarty tried to give to us, one perfect thought leapt out at me and it was this: at least I won’t have to live without John. He said run but I surprised myself by realising I would not run, I would never run. I would never, not ever leave him hurting and alone. I did anyway, later. Only to save him. Only because I had to.

When I am with John, the sky is not bluer, the birds do not chirrup sweetly. London is as it ever was, only more so. In fact, this autumn day is chilly, damp seems to be seeping into the very soles of our shoes and through the plaster. But this bed is warm and dry and we have nothing to do and I am not bored at all.

I do not want John to whisper my name, I want him to cry it out so loudly and so long that he grows hoarse, maybe he forgets how to say any other name. I don’t want to fall asleep in my lover’s arms, I want to stay awake forever, mapping the incredible unknowable country that is John Watson. I hate the idea that how we feel can’t be described, I want John to tell me everything, I want him to write out and explain every thought and feeling he’s ever had so that I can graph them carefully and perhaps learn to predict them.

This hunger is nothing like tenderness, the way I want to break John with pleasure. His mouth gasping for air, inelegant and yet somehow, inexplicably perfect. There is nothing at all coy and flirtatious about the shiver he gives as I pull him close to me. I want to breathe in John, but I can’t so I will settle for the scent of nutmeg and salt as I bring my mouth to his cock. This is not careful, this is calculated. I want John undone by me. If I start like this, repressing the urge to gag while his eyes nearly roll back in his head there is a chance he won’t be able to speak, after, for many minutes. This is what I plan for.

I want him to go offline, so that he doesn’t even recognise what his mobile is, much less why it’s ringing and why his sister is calling instead of texting in the middle of the day. Now that John is close, but not past the point of no return, I change tactics. This is not careful, this is calculated. I refuse him when he asks to reciprocate, because I am impatient to hear the sound he makes with my fingers inside him; it’s like he’s feeling so much pleasure it is almost painful. And I want that, I want it for him. I want his synapses to be so overloaded by pleasure they confuse it with pain. I want him to feel so much ecstasy that it hurts. This is easy, prostate stimulation. It’s so effective there should be adverts for it in magazines.

His fingers dig into my shoulder, his mouth opens in a silent plea. He begs me never to stop, so of course I stop immediately. He is shaking, he feels feverish beneath my hands. La petite mort, et je souhaite tuer (seulement une petite mort, je veux qu'il revienne). He would let me do anything, anything at all, to him. He is lost. He is mine.

I would stay this removed, I would not let my own arousal interfere with this observation, but now I want to bite down on John’s good shoulder until I feel the flesh beneath give way beneath my teeth. I want to tear him apart. We are not gentle with each other, we are desperate, we are dying of desire. There is no way we could be closer, be together in a way that is enough. But this is the closest we have.

And I do want to have John, I want to fuck him so thoroughly he is dazed. I want him to sweat, I want to lick him and taste endorphins and oxytocin and life. And he doesn’t shout. No, he goes deadly quiet and I know I have done something terrible and wonderful. When I fuck him, after he begs me to, it is nothing at all like terrible romcoms. Christ, the noises he makes are too graphic for pornography.

But I draw it out, as I can, for many long minutes. My self-control in some respects is perfectly admirable. He holds tight to the headboard until his knuckles are white, until he is trembling so that he can’t hold on any longer. He gave up speaking some time ago; I feel triumphant.

John, always so carefully composed, now unwound. Has anything ever been so beautiful? If I say it aloud, he will laugh, and say I have no sense of beauty, that I only see blood in scarlet sunsets, and that if I think an old army doctor is beautiful then it’s just more evidence my sense of beauty can’t be trusted. But something will ring true in him, something we shared under a sliver of starlit sky.

But I know what John wants to hear most, so it’s what I want to say. I slow down, John responds nearly subconsciously. Fair lashes flicker open, he’s checking: am I alright?, do I need something different?, am I with him? Yes, yes, yes, John. I’m with you. I’m always with you. I say what he wants to hear but is still afraid to ask.

“I’m here, I’m here, I’ll never leave you again. I’m with you.” It is a promise I do not know if I can keep, but I want to.

Our bodies still moving together gently like the tide, like waves against a stony beach. I think that perhaps I am the wave that washes out to sea, and I always return to the shore, to John.

John pulls me close, one arm hooked around the back of my neck, his lips at my jaw and I feel it take him. He makes a sound, like a fractured sob, somehow infused with joy. He comes hard, bearing down on me, desperate for more, hungry for more contact, more skin, more everything. With that, I am lost. I give myself over to him, to his inexorable gravity.

Because what I feel for John is nothing like love. No, not like love, it _is_ love. It is love of a different kind; ours is the only one like it in the world. We invented it.


	2. It's Nothing Like Love

John threw himself into the rickety hired chair. He was flushed and a bit thirsty, dancing was warm work. He relaxed with a fourth (or fifth?) glass of champagne and happily surveyed the crowd. Good turnout.

He spotted a flash of black and white, more starkly contrasting than the other couples. A beautifully shaped petite woman was keeping pace with a skilled partner. Her blonde hair shone like honey in the shifting light. Her partner was slim and tall, his dark curls haloed a severe, pale face.

“Sherlock.” John whispered, without realizing it. It felt as though his breath had been struck from him. He couldn’t keep his eyes off that precise, angular form. He moved with such a lithe effortless grace that John was genuinely taken aback. He’d never seen Sherlock dance. He stifled a little moan before it escaped his throat.

He was staring. But no one would mind. No one would even think anything of it. He watched as Sherlock’s hand moved to the woman’s side, long fingers wrapping chastely high on her waist.

The next moment he lifted his chin, long lines of his neck exposed; he was as artfully composed as an aria. His pale eyes flickered on John. Their eyes met and briefly, oh so briefly, and they shared an immediate and involuntary smile.

John swallowed hard and gripped the flute in his hand. Harder than he had intended. The bowl cracked, then snapped. In a rush of panic, he glanced around to check that no one was watching. Safe. He slipped the handful of broken glass beneath a napkin.

Barely a second had passed, but Sherlock had spun his partner closer to John. She was clinging to his waist and shoulder, now struggling to keep up. Sherlock’s long legs gave him an unfair advantage and he pressed it, leading her closer and closer to John. His eyes locked on John’s again briefly. And they said _I know exactly what you’re thinking_. And John knew he knew. Of course he did. There aren't any secrets between the two of them any longer.

John went on staring, eyes fixed on the tuxedo-clad form of the consulting detective. John considered that perhaps, tuxedos had been designed with Sherlock in mind.

Sherlock couldn’t resist showing off. He never could. He exaggerated his steps, slightly beyond the gait of his partner, threw her into a dramatic spin, then a low dip, hands at the small of her back. It would have been scandalous, except for the fact that he was Sherlock and therefore prone to exaggerated, attention-seeking feats, and that his partner, dressed in white, was John’s bride.

John stood, heart pounding. He was surprised everyone in the reception hall couldn’t hear it over the music. He still couldn’t take his eyes off Sherlock. He walked towards the couple, their dance winding down, Sherlock extricating himself from Mary’s grasp.

The low rumble of Sherlock’s voice hit John square in the chest. It took John a moment to figure out what he was saying. Mary’s brother was next in line on her dance card, it seemed. Yes.

Good.

Mary brushed a kiss on John’s cheek as she stepped past. He still could not take his eyes off Sherlock.

He took a breath. Put on his relaxed smile.

“Fancy a break?”

Sherlock’s eyebrow lifted.

“Love a cigarette.”

Sherlock met John’s gaze with a look that practically sizzled with intensity.

“I could use some fresh air.”

John took Sherlock’s elbow, grasping hard. Sherlock gasped.

In moments, they were nearly outside. Suddenly, John took a sharp right, opened the closed cloakroom door. Gave Sherlock a shove. At the same time, Sherlock was reaching for John, pulling him so that they both stumbled against the wall.

They came together nearly violently. Sherlock’s hands grasped hard at John, at his waist and neck, and John, with equal force, pulled Sherlock to him.

One of John’s hands found its way into Sherlock’s hair, wound into those dark curls. Pressed his head into the kiss. Sherlock clung to John desperately, mouth on John’s mouth like a hunger that could never be sated.

John struggled for breath, ripped himself away from the kiss that was teeth and suction and wetness all at once, in a confusing, slightly terrifying jumble. Sherlock’s breath was equally ragged, but he allowed John no quarter, took him closer in an embrace that was nearly an attack. leaning down into the smaller man, lips taking what they would.

John’s drew his tongue across the length of Sherlock’s jaw, and Sherlock nearly went to his knees. Instead, Sherlock held John tightly, pressing his whole body hard against him. John saw stars as Sherlock took his chance and kissed him deeply again, tongue searching deep in John’s mouth.

Nearly of their own accord, John’s hands slipped up Sherlock’s chest, rounded his shoulders, pushing his jacket to the floor. There was nothing at all gentle about the way John grabbed at Sherlock, ground his hips into him.

Both panting, John pulls Sherlock’s head back by his hair, quickly.

“I want to look at you,” growls, so voice so dark with arousal it could be anger.

Sherlock blinks, frozen, long fingers caught beneath the waistband of John’s trousers. John’s eyes are dark and blazing. Sherlock is staring at John intently, taking in everything he can. Observing.

Then John crushes his face into the Sherlock’s neck, biting, kissing, nuzzling beneath the crisp collar.

Sherlock’s hands slip lower, grab John’s cock in a sudden, sure movement.

John nearly shouts, throwing his head back. But it’s not enough, not nearly. He fumbles at Sherlock’s belt, at his zip. His eyes sparkling, Sherlock undoes John in a few practiced motions.

“Oh, _fuck_.” John breathes, reaching to dig his fingers into the soft white flesh of Sherlock’s bottom, groping hard. Sherlock lets out a deep, low sound, a hum of pleasure.

John presses Sherlock into the hanging coats, and they drink each other in, swathed in silk, surrounded by wool and taffeta. Silver blue eyes are lost in shadow.

With a grunt, John twists Sherlock where he stands. It was harder than he’d intended, and Sherlock loses his balance, leans his hands into the wall beyond the hanging coats and scarves.

John grabs hard on those slim hips, grinds into Sherlock’s arse. He only hears a breathy sound of surprise from Sherlock, his face pressed into a rain-damp slicker.

And John hesitates. He knows he’s nearly taken leave of his senses, but he wouldn’t do anything beyond what was wanted. At that, Sherlock twists to look back at him, his voice nearly taking on a whine.

“For god’s sake, _yes_.”

It’s all the permission John needs. He spits into his hand, rubs it quickly on the screamingly sensitive head (takes a breath, afraid he’ll come at that alone). Without preable, he shoves his cock, hard, into Sherlock.

A sharp sound of pain. John stops.

“No, NO! Keep going!” Sherlock cries, until John fucks him again.

John feels the world may implode. Pleasure unlike anything he has ever known tears through him, the sight of Sherlock’s long back drives him to madness. He drives his fingers into the pale skin, pulling the dress shirt up to his shoulders.

Sherlock drives his hips against John again and again, so strongly that John must answer with his own force.

Sherlock begins to tremble beneath him. John can tell it must hurt, fucking nearly dry like that. But Sherlock becomes wild, bucking against him.

He hears Sherlock begin to mumble, words sliding from his mouth.

“Tue-moi.” His voice is strangely small, fragile compared to his desperate, animal movements.

Sweat began to shine on John’s face.

Pleasure and pain into one. For them both.

Sherlock’s voice rolls on and on, speaking a language John did not know.

“Tue-moi. Je ne vais pas vivre. Tue-moi, tue-moi! Je vais mourir sans toi.”

“Christ, I’m going to come.” John says, his voice breaking. He feels shattered.

Sherlock’s foreign poetry becomes a wordless moan, and his knees go weak. John grips hard, driving himself into Sherlock again and again until Sherlock cries out. He shudders wildly and John does not relent.

Finally, John comes, deep inside Sherlock. His own orgasm is blindingly strong, his sounds of pleasure nearly shouts. It takes him over, paints him in a thrumming, white-hot surge of need and joy. The sound Sherlock makes as John comes inside him is broken and torn from his throat against his will.

Still spasming, John tries to pull Sherlock close. He won’t have it. Sherlock pulls away suddenly, and John collapses, bringing down handfuls of jackets and coats as he goes to the floor. A tiny smirk answers John’s indignant look. Sherlock grabs a long soft scarf from where it hangs before him, wipes up quickly, as John stares on, a bit dumbstruck. He throws the scarf into the bin beside the door.

With efficient, but still shaking hands, Sherlock rearranges his clothing. Does up his zip. Tucks his shirt back into his trousers. John can’t quite sort out how to move again, he scrambles to his knees, cock still out, shirt buttons undone.

Sherlock is leaning before him, planting a soft kiss on his lips. John reaches for him, to pull him into the kiss, but Sherlock deftly steps away. His eyes are as cold and distant as the moon.

“That was nice, wasn’t it?” He asks, voice as steady as it ever was. He gives John a wink and steps out the door, shutting it gently behind him.

John slowly rises, sets himself right again. When he leaves the room to rejoin his wife and her family, his hands are steady.

Sherlock locks the door of the bathroom, throws himself to the floor. He leans over, retches, is sure he’ll vomit. Hot, angry tears slip down his face and he says a name over and over again.

“John, please...”


	3. Because the Baby's Finally Sleeping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I promised you sweetness and fluff, enjoy!

The first time John walked by, Sherlock was playing with the baby, laughing and swooping him high in the air. John’s heart soared at the glimpse of his happy family.

The second time he passes the open door, Hamish is propped against two pillows as Sherlock explained warp and weft in detail, holding two scraps of fabric. The baby looked up blankly as his father droned on, then, making an inexplicably pleased sound, grabbed at the waving cloth.

Only an hour later, John nearly walked past the bedroom a third time. When he glanced in, Sherlock was stretched flat on the bed, Hamish asleep on his chest. Sherlock slowly turned his head in John’s direction and when their eyes met, Sherlock’s smile spread into something warm and delicious.

John made his way to the two people he loved most in the world, careful to keep his tread light. Sherlock made a silent _shhhh_ with pursed lips. “I know,” John mouthed, sitting at the edge of the bed. Hamish’s tiny hand was above his head, chubby fingers wound in Sherlock’s dark curls.

John thought it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. He blinked quickly against tears welling in his eyes, his happiness threatening to spill over. There was a painful lump in his throat as he rested his hand on Hamish’s back. The sound of his tiny breaths moved him more than any music ever had.

He didn’t realize Sherlock had been looking up at him the whole time, studying the play of emotions across his face. He was tired; they were both tired, of course. Sherlock reached for John, involuntarily. Before he even realized he was moving his hand was at John’s jaw, stroking in his soft grey and gold hair.

John moved again, went to pick up Hamish, cuddle him close. Sherlock’s eyes flew open wide in exaggerated surprise.

“He finally just fell asleep, you’ll wake him!” he hissed softly.

John chuckled soundlessly.

“It’s alright.” he said quietly, kissing the top of the baby’s head. He never stopped being amazed at the fragile softness of his skin, at his warmth and sweet smell. Then he laid the baby in the cot at the foot of the bed. John looked on as Hamish sighed and settled himself, falling back to sleep, never having really woken.

When he sat back down at the edge of the bed, Sherlock slowly opened his own eyes, sleep threatening to take him down in the middle of the day. He wasn’t exhausted, just that languorous tiredness that meant you could drowse at any moment.

Sherlock smiled again, and John felt himself responding in kind, reaching for Sherlock’s hand at his side.

Golden summery light glanced off the beautiful face of the only man John had ever loved. He leant and kissed his cheek gently, resting his cheek against Sherlock’s for a moment. Sherlock leaned into the touch, gave a low hum of encouragement, so John nuzzled closer, kissing low on his neck.

Sherlock sighed his agreement, and gently pulled John closer to him, until John was pressed against him from head to toe.

John’s infectious smile again, and Sherlock knew he could not have loved another person as he loved John, could not dream even conceive of a world where such a thing could be possible.

They kissed again, each moving forward tentatively into sweet, slow kisses. They could have gone on kissing for the rest of the afternoon, thought John. But with time, their kisses became deeper, though still without any urgency. They had forever, after all.

When John slid his tongue slowly across Sherlock’s bottom lip, Sherlock shivered and gave a breathless cry of pleasure.

“Shhh,” John breathed into his mouth, breath tasting of tea and milk and Sherlock, “the baby’s sleeping.” Sherlock gave a silent nod, John often found him pleasantly agreeable when things started to get intense between them.

With time, hands found their way to buttons, beneath shirts, to zips and cuffs. They luxuriated in the feel of skin on skin, in the harmony of their bodies moving together.

Sherlock’s once sleepy eyes blazed with intensity, drinking in John with his endless curiosity and fathomless desire. John wondered if knowing that you were loved was the greatest aphrodisiac of all. His hands slid over Sherlock’s skin, like acres of pale silk beneath him.

Sherlock slipped his hands low, running his fingers slowly through the stiff curls of honey and dark amber until John moaned with desire. Easy, so easy, he thought. John, always so responsive. He kissed John’s shoulder, hand working to John’s cock, already pressing hot and hard against his hip.

He stroked John slowly, reveling in feel of him, teasing and rolling his thumb across the glans until John threw his head back, moaning quietly. Sherlock leant even closer to lick at the throbbing pulse in John’s neck.

In what seemed like only moments, John was digging his fingers into Sherlock’s shoulder, nearly begging in a whisper, “Please, if you don’t stop I’m going to...oh god...” But Sherlock neither slowed or hastened his teasingly slow pace, watching the drop of pearly fluid escape the tiny slit at the head of John’s penis, considering tasting it. But John was responding so wonderfully that he went on, and on and on.

Finally John’s eyes went wide, dark pupils subsuming navy. He choked back a cry. Sherlock held him, pressed his mouth into John’s so that John didn’t make a sound. Sherlock pulled John even closer, so that they touched nearly everywhere as John quivered and came, his panting breath coming hard and fast. As pleasure rippled through him, still pulsing with gorgeous waves of shimmering white, those tears of joy finally slipped from his eyes.

The baby never even stirred.


	4. Because It's Cold

John perched at the edge of his seat, wrapped in a tatty woolen blanket. He was trying to sort out the best way to hold his mug of tea without letting too much body heat escape. He felt rather sorry for himself, and a bit pathetically lonely, which was silly because Sherlock was sleeping in the next room.

The tea was zhū chá, and had been a gift. The name most commonly used for it in English was gunpowder tea, and Sherlock thought it must be a perfect fit for John. He smiled, remembering how pleased Sherlock was with himself when John opened the packet. The tea was warm, and hit his mouth with a pleasant bright woodiness. But it wasn’t nearly enough. He curled his toes into the folds of the blanket, searching for warmth that just wasn’t there.

He could start a fire, but it seemed like an awful fuss. Maybe if he moved around just a little.

Standing, wrapped in the grey wool, he looked like he was confused about how to dress as a Roman for a costume party. With a shiver, he walked aimlessly through the flat, dragging his blanket behind. _Maybe a warm shower?_ he considered.

The tips of his ears and his nose were cold, and no one was available to look at the heating until tomorrow morning at the earliest. He couldn't even get dressed and go down the pub, the early morning light was still grey and wan.

Like a subtle sort of gravity had hold on him, he made his way towards the bedroom without a conscious thought. Towards Sherlock, towards the center of his whole life. To his surprise, Sherlock was awake, a yellowed text propped in front of him.

John stopped in the doorway, feeling peevish. Being cold did that to him.

“What you reading, then?”

Sherlock didn’t look away, but said softly.

“Oh, I’m at the interesting bit. On the ankule and the amentum.”

John didn’t even want to ask.

After a moment, Sherlock closed the book, rolled his head in John’s direction. His dark curls were a crown of raven fluff. John smiled, in spite of himself.

“Are you going to continue to be ridiculous?” Sherlock drawled sarcastically.

John gave a put-upon sigh.

“Even for you, this is absurd.” Sherlock continued, rolling his eyes, but his mocking had a gentleness about it, humour John just sorted out.

He flipped the corner of the duvet down.

“Come on, you idiot.” he sighed, exasperated with John’s exceptional denseness.

An invitation. John dropped the blanket where he stood and slipped into the pocket of warmth between the sheets with Sherlock.

Oh, he was nude. That was a pleasant surprise, and totally unpredictable. Sherlock’s level of dress or undress depended on too many variables to calculate. The lack of clothing meant Sherlock’s body heat was immediate and gratifying to the extreme. John shivered and leaned against him.

Sherlock smiled and pulled John into an embrace. They were still for a few moments, swathed in duvet and blankets, warmth beginning to bring John back to life.

“Feeling better?” Sherlock asked, his voice low and soft, breath barely riffling John’s hair. John smiled and tipped his chin up for a kiss. Sherlock obliged, and their lips met in a kiss that sparked warmth deep in John’s belly and radiated out as it went on and on.

“Warming up.” he sighed, a bit breathless.

Sherlock slipped another kiss down at the corner of John’s mouth.

“Too bad,” he breathed, “I was trying to come up with the least efficient way of warming you up.”

John stroked the length of Sherlock’s back, then up into his mad curls.

“Least efficient?”

“Oh yes, we’ve got all day. Unless you’ve other, more pressing engagements?”

John licks his lips in an unconscious gesture that drives Sherlock wild, though John doesn’t know it. John feels Sherlock go hard against his hip, and his eyes widen with pleasure and surprise.


	5. Back to Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Poetry. Could qualify under the "rebound" category.

* 

If I wind this scarf

through my empty hands

enough times

it could summon you back

back to me

back to this bed

back to hours here in this watery grey light

that we should have spent together

bodies moving

the hiss of skin on skin.

I could have written

everything I should have said,

times we should have laughed

in the circle

of each others arms.

I'm afraid

it means something

to conjure you again and again

in my dreams,

to wake slicked with sweat

my body responding to your ghost.

 

I brought a woman here,

to this house.

She sat in your chair.

Didn’t mean anything to her.

We made love like a great tragedy unfolding.

When she threw back her head,

I imagined it was you.


	6. To Take Your Mind Off Your Troubles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: nightmares

John wakes, already in motion. With a resounding crack, his head hits the corner of the bureau. His panting breath slipped into an involuntary cry. Panic strangled his voice, covered him a sheen of cold sweat.

Sherlock’s hands were on him, long fingers around the back of his neck, his other hand pressing gently into the small of his back.

“Shhh.” he whispered, pressing his lips to John’s hairline in an inexpressibly gentle kiss.

John swallowed against the painful lump in his throat, brought his hand to his head, feeling for the bruise blossoming on his scalp. Sherlock brought his hand up to the same spot, his fingers cool and soothing. John let his hand fall, gave a violent shudder.

“Where were you?” Sherlock’s voice winds its way into John’s fading nightmare, through silent swells and breaking waves, disrupting the tang of chlorine.

John blinks again, the surprise of returning tears nearly taking him under the surface of his nightmare again.

“Pool.” His voice is low and harried by sorrow.

Sherlock shifts, turns John towards him with his hands, entwines his legs with John’s, presses his forehead to John’s. Breathes slowly, slower than John’s hitched and ragged breaths. John will start to match his. Inhale. Exhale. He knows this. He has been through this many times. Inhale. Exhale.

 _This is the gift I have given him_ , Sherlock thinks. _The gift I cannot take back; the gift of trauma_. Some nights it is the pool, John struggling beneath dark waters. Some nights it is the street in front of St. Barts, John stumbling towards his falling friend. Sometimes he reaches towards the falling figure, ends up with handfuls of dusty raven feathers, broken slivers of bone, or ash and cinder.

As if John’s dreams about the war weren’t enough.

Sherlock’s heart slows to a dull, painful thud in his chest. He wants to say _it’s alright, you’re safe, I’ve got you,_ over and over again, a litany of comfort to ease the silence pressing in on John. But he does not know how to form those words, they are foreign and beyond where his throat can reach. So he strokes John’s back, presses him close. Breathes against his sweat-slicked skin.

“You...alright?” he asks, the question tapering off as though he’d forgotten how to end it.

In response, John pulls him down closer, so that his face is nestled in the crook of Sherlock’s neck. The steady pulse against his lips reminds him that Sherlock is alive, is alive, alive, alive.

Sherlock presses his long, slim, nude body against John to absorb the trembling. _I would take your suffering into me,_ he says without a word.

A deep breath and John moves through panic to wakefulness. Winds his fingers in dark curls, a mirror of Sherlock with his hands brushing John’s soft honey and grey fringe from his eyes. Another slow breath, then a kiss like kindness against Sherlock’s pursed lips. At first he’s met with tension (surprise?) then softened lips and the brush of his tongue against John’s lower lip.

John hums a wordless sound of encouragement, licking back, into Sherlock’s mouth. John’s hand is steady as he pushes gently against Sherlock, rolling him onto his back. Sherlock reaches for John, grabs his side, fingers slotted between his ribs. The bare skin of Sherlock’s chest is warm and flushed, fine hair like silk beneath John’s hands as he slowly explores.

Sherlock starts to sigh but is suddenly breathless when John leans to lick and nibble at his nipple. Sherlock’s prick, already hopeful and half hard, twitches as John’s mouth dances down Sherlock’s chest, to the trail of dark hair at his belly. There he stops, tongue tracing tiny circles, until Sherlock’s cock nudges, insistent, against his chin.

Sherlock’s still a bit dazed by the sudden change in John’s demeanor, but John flashes him a wicked smile, lips shining with saliva and flushed bright pink, and he returns it. Clever John, he catches the moment’s hesitation, dips his head low to rest his chin on Sherlock’s hipbone. John’s navy eyes are soft but keen as he whispers, nearly soundlessly “This alright?” He reaches up, fingertips stroking the side of Sherlock’s face, the line of his jaw and neck.

Sherlock nods, leaning his face into John’s palm.

“Good, thought since we were both up...”

John can feel Sherlock smile into his open hand. He tilts his head, runs his tongue down the length of Sherlock’s cock, which throbs in the most satisfactory way. Sherlock throws his head back, the long column of his pale throat exposed as John slides his tongue slowly around his foreskin, hand now firmly around the length of Sherlock’s prick.

A wave of pleasure nearly lifts Sherlock from the bed, his head and shoulders leave the pillows to curl closer to John, his knees draw upwards, heels digging into the bedclothes.

“Ohhhh, god!” he cries, and John can’t help himself, he feels more than a little smug he can make Sherlock lose his usual eloquence so quickly. Shaking hands paw weakly in John’s already-mussed hair. This might take no time at all.

Sherlock tastes of sleep and salt and something darker, a spicy tang of musk and earth. John shivers, half with a exquisite pleasure, half against the chill air of the bedroom, as he takes Sherlock in past his lips, deep into his throat in one seamless movement. It was unexpected, Sherlock has grown used to John’s teasing kisses and slow start. He digs his blunt nails into John’s shoulder, trying to let John move at his own pace, but suddenly desperate for a repeat of that wet warmth.

John’s own erection makes itself known, straining against the fabric of his thin pajamas. He takes himself in hand, pulling the waistband of his pajamas and pants down to his hips with a wiggle. Sherlock’s eyes go wide at the sight, and a bone-deep thrumming of sensuous pleasure tears through him. Moments ago he felt death licking at John’s wounds. Now John is blazing with life, sneaking quick glances up at Sherlock’s face as he slides his tongue around the plump head of Sherlock’s leaking cock.

Sherlock’s eyes nearly roll back in his head. He collapses against the bed, the afterimage of John’s mouth on him burning behind his eyes, John's hand working his own cock in sure, sharp jerks.

“John, I...” he gasps. John’s smug sense of triumph redoubles. Once, Sherlock was often unable to communicate his closeness to orgasm. It would take them both by surprise and occasionally leave John spluttering and gagging. Sherlock quickly learned that he would have to address this thoughtless behavior in order for John’s generous mouth to return where he so longed for it.

“Please!” he breathes, fingers beneath John’s chin. “I’m going to.” his sentence cuts off abruptly as John presses against his protesting hands, and brings Sherlock in as far as he can, head of his cock sliding easily past the nip of his teeth, across his soft palate.

His hips leave the bed of their own accord, in an effort to stay between John’s lips. But John knows better, winds his tongue again and again against the length of Sherlock’s prick, his own growing slippery with pre-come. He matches the tempo of his bobbing head with the stroke of his hand and knows he won’t last long, not with Sherlock stretched beneath him, limbs thrashing, hands fisted in the bed linens.

A choked cry and Sherlock grows stiffer beneath his hand and tongue, then the sudden pulsing begins. Again, then again the spurt of salt and brine, thick on his tongue. That, and the low moan torn from Sherlock’s throat bring him over the edge and he comes hard, he swallows and coughs, gasping for breath. He comes with Sherlock’s achingly hard cock in his mouth, driving the now oversensitive head against the back of his throat.

John doesn’t move for a moment, collapsed between Sherlock’s legs; one hand still loosely grasping himself, slick with the immediate results of his breathtaking orgasm, the other hand still around Sherlock as he softens, slips from between John’s lips. Sherlock gives a keen sound of pleasure nearing pain.

A breath, and he pulls John up to rest on his chest, in the crook of his arm. When they kiss, John’s lips are slick and wet. Sherlock pulls the sheets and blanket back over them, John feels too beautifully exhausted and wrecked to ever move again. Sleep takes them back under, and the only waves John feels for the rest of the night are the subtle tides of endorphins, washing him gently with affection and warmth.


	7. Because You Remember Another Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because you remember another time, a better time.
> 
> TW: grief/mourning
> 
> Come join me over at idunnothingsilike.tumblr with questions or prompt requests! Or just to follow or chat, of course.

John Watson turns his face from the light beginning to creep its way in through the window. He turns his face into the dark shadow that’s pulling away, the dark shadow he’s laid in all night. There was a moment, after he drowsed, shortly after waking, that he didn’t remember. It was how he reckoned an amnesiac must feel, unmoored in the world of quotidian pains the rest of us suffer through. But it was brought to bear against his heart rather quickly. A weight so heavy it knocked the breath out of him.

Instead of pushing it away, John threw himself under that weight, let it crush his chest, ribcage cracking in protest. He would not leave those thoughts alone, they were all that remained to him. So he curled up in his empty bed and let them pull at him; insistent and cruel.

Sherlock. His last thought before sleep, scanty as it was, took him. Sherlock. His first thought even before he could organize his scattered mind into thoughts. Sherlock.

Sherlock, in this same bed. A few months ago John lost track of how long Sherlock had been gone from his bed, and it felt like another loss. It was Sherlock who had eaten biscuits between these sheets, laughing when John went on and on about crumbs. It was Sherlock who had held him after he woke, feverish and wild from his nightmares about the war. Right here, at the end of the bed, he had kissed John for the first time. In this bed they had taken many cups of tea, stayed up together reading many late nights. 

It was in this bed that they first made love, though they were too surprised and terrified to call it love just then.

John reached out and laid his hand where Sherlock’s head should have rested.

It was in this bed that they spent their last night together. John’s ragged breath comes out as a torn sob when he touches on that memory. Joy and sorrow stutter and dance together as he involuntarily runs his hand down his chest and waist, in an unconscious echo of what Sherlock did that night. But his hands are his own, and his fingers blunt and short, not long and cool. He digs his nails into his hip, hard. Hard enough to stop the tears pooling in his eyes, and he struggles to recall how Sherlock’s lips felt against his, that last time.

They were gentle, so kind to each other. John reveled in it, not realizing Sherlock was making a decision, even then. Not realizing that Sherlock knew it’d likely be their last moment of peace together.

He remembers how it started, Sherlock kissing into his mouth, which was drawn tight with anxiety. Sherlock touched John like he couldn’t get enough of him, like he knew he might have to take him all in that night, like there wouldn’t be another chance.

John’s cock throbs when he remembers Sherlock’s mouth along his jaw, the way he moved his fingers in slow circles across John’s scalp, how he shivered with drawn-out pleasure. John’s thought they had finally reached some sort of peace together, that what they had grown together had started to take root. He gives a silent cry, mouth falling open, half with pain, half with surprise at how good it feels to touch himself again when his hand snakes beneath the waistband of his pajamas.

How beautiful they had been, without knowing it. Sherlock had been a pale form, lithe and powerful in the warm glow of a solitary lamp. With his hands and mouth, he sent John to places of incredible bliss, left him shattered and gasping and somehow wanting more. The near violence of their early pairings had dissipated, replaced with a unutterable tenderness.

John’s hand slides along his prick, slowly, slowly, and his face is taut with the incredible intensity of the memory of Sherlock’s skin against his. John had first felt so small and ordinary, but Sherlock’s ceaseless worship of his body, of the deceptive strength in his compact form had eventually started to change how he viewed himself. John’s breath moves to a pant as he remembers Sherlock’s fingers and lips on his scar that night. John had, of course, tried to turn his shoulder away, but Sherlock had insisted.

“It shows you’ve been marked, John. It’s a seal the gods have put on you.” His voice was low and bitten by the wavering vibrato of love. John had looked down at him, confused, and Sherlock had answered the question in his eyes. “It shows you were marked for something different. A different life. It knocked you off one path and lead you, tumbling, towards me.”

John had turned his face down, looked into Sherlock’s blazing eyes. He knew, at that moment, that it was impossible to love another person as he loved Sherlock Holmes. As he laid in bed, he remembered how the realization hit him, that he never wanted to love anyone else. The thought filled his entire body with an inexpressible warmth and safety that had nothing at all to do with physical safety. When he looked into those pale, sparkling eyes he knew that he was loved equally, and in return.

Over and over again, John cries the name he dares not utter during the light of day. His empty hand curls around the ghost of Sherlock, twitching with the memory of his feathery curls. The other hand moves quickly, desperately, with broken rhythm over his cock. A scintillating wave of light and dark passes through him, melancholy where it ought never be, wound tight with joy and torn down with pain. He remembers Sherlock’s unsteady voice, asking “Will you hold me, John? I want you to hold me when I come.” It is the most intimate thing Sherlock has ever asked of him, the most sentiment he has shown in their history of emotionally intense coupling, because he is so unsure, so fragile and needy that John is nearly heartbroken by the terrific want. And John holds him while he comes, long lines of his body extended gracefully, and Sherlock throws his head back into John’s waiting hand. When that memory passes through John, his own orgasm takes an irreversible hold over him. He comes hard, shaking with the effort, trembling with directionless emotion.

He remembers Sherlock’s gentle mouth moving against him as they lay spent, in this bed. It was in this bed he knew love best. Now, in this bed, John weeps and trembles, recalling his lost lover as the grey fingers of dawn shred the last cover of night.


	8. The Monochrome World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John got a chapter like this, so I figured it was Sherlock's turn.
> 
> (Huge thanks to those who have commented and kudos'd - you keep me encouraged and excited to keep writing!)

The world is inexplicably colourless to Sherlock Holmes. The last thing he remembers in full colour is that terrible morning. The incredible brightness of the surprise of Jim Moriarty’s blood; chips of white bone dancing in a gush of crimson, puzzle pieces that can never be reconstructed into anything at all. There was the crowded bit of sky, a track to the wide, endless blue above, then the world contracted to a tiny point. The last flickering bolt of colour in the form of perfectly colourless John Watson. Even from that height, looking through tear-blurred eyes at the tiny dark smear John made on the pavement, Sherlock knew he was the source of of all colour in the world.

John was the prism through which reality shone, so he broke it into every colour possible. He created colour. Funny, Sherlock had never realised it. Then, the grief in John’s voice had collapsed all the colours in the world upon him.

John, unbiddable to the end, had refused his last request. Maybe, Sherlock reckoned, that meant that John got to keep the colours, forever. Perhaps there was a mathematics of loss at play that Sherlock had not anticipated. 

Sherlock huddled under a skimpy quilt and thought of John, and John’s colours. He knew John was many, many miles away, curled up in their bed alone. As a conductor of light, John had magnified everything around him, especially when they were in that bed together.

Oh, John. Sherlock had wanted to open you up just to see the scarlet story your heart beat out. John of the lapis lazuli eyes, like an icon. That blue had been worshiped throughout time, sacre bleu, the holy colour of promise.

Sherlock’s mouth makes a perfect moue of distaste, for life has dashed away all but the memory of those eyes, which sparked like chips of mica in macadam. John’s name is written across his vision like reality has decided to get itself a tattoo.

Sherlock takes himself in hand, gasps because it has been so long, and because it is not John’s hand on him and John’s hands are gentler, even when John is rough. 

It is not the colour of John’s eyes he recalls in that moment, but the peony petal of his tongue slipping across his thin lips, so typical of John: absentmindedly erotic.

There was a library of colour on John’s skin alone, the olive and gold fading to ivory where desert sands once kissed, veins bright as delphinium blossoms returning to his heart, the pale cream of his trim waist.

John flushed the most delightful colours when they were intimate, a speckled blaze of rosy pink along his chest and neck, reaching for his cheeks. His arousal might as well have been scrawled across him in flashing lights. Of course he flushed when angry as well, the two passions twinned so closely. But Sherlock does not dwell on John’s anger, though it is righteous and beautiful itself, but on the light constellation of freckles across John’s bare shoulders.

It is easy to imagine it is John’s clever hand instead of his own; when John touched him he saw colour explode behind his eyes, strange neurochemical fireworks. The ghosts of those conflagrations flare and flicker weakly, but it is enough. Sherlock thinks of John, his small form curled like a nautilus in their big, empty bed. Their last night together, before Sherlock had to leave John, they made an island of their bodies in the sea of azure linen. John was the brightest thing he’d ever seen, incandescent and bursting with colour and life.

Sherlock had already known, then, that their remaining time together might only be measured in hours. He had intended only to bring John pleasure, but instead he found himself receiving it in turn. John’s hands and mouth alone had Sherlock seeing colours he’d never before imagined, and when they made love it was like the fragile world was unfolding beneath them (and it was).

When John moved against him, Sherlock was surprised to see his skin wasn’t striped with ruby and charcoal, burnt by John’s blazing heat and intensity. When their mouths met, Sherlock felt what kept stars suspended in the sky, though he could not have articulated it. Even now, when he wakes, he thoughtlessly tips his lips towards where John should be on the pillow next to his, or he reaches out his hand for the steady shoulder he has long relied upon. And there is nothing, and blank sepia tones threaten to engulf him once again.

Now, in his memory, John is bright and so beautifully alive in a way Sherlock can’t believe he has ever felt. He remembers John’s hands on him and he sees arcing, painfully bright violets bloom in darkness. Recalling John’s mouth on his jaw and John’s eyelashes fluttering against his cheek and the world begins to grow white around the edges.

John held him, careful and kind, but with surprising strength as a blinding whiteness suddenly tore through him. He was breathless and that whiteness was composed of every colour that ever was. He could have drowned in it, could have floated away in it, if not for John’s easy voice calling him back down to the safety of his gentle embrace. He had called Sherlock’s name again and again, but now Sherlock called John’s name, whispering into a pale wash of white that was nothing at all like having John near.

“John?” he begged the memory of his lost lover, “John!” he cried, and the sound escaping his throat practically choked him with loneliness. For a moment, at his shaking climax, it was nearly like John was with him, and the world burned bright again, full-colour.

As everything went monochrome again, Sherlock reached, in his fathomlessly strong mind, for the slip of John’s kiss against him, for John’s warm hand at the small of his back, pulling him close.


	9. This Is How We Live, Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is for the best. This is moving on.

John’s laugh is hollow. No one can hear it but him, but it’s hollow all the same. It echoes in the kitchen. Mary’s laugh is like a handful of coins, tossed in the air. She pours them both another glass of wine and sits beside him. She is beautiful, but he’s watching her from a thousand miles away. He moves his hands, takes a drink, another bite. This is what being alive is like. She knows there is a thread of darkness beneath everything he says, behind every blank stare. It draws her close, close, closer to him though she knows poison when she sees it.  
  
They watch television for a few hours, his fingers laced in hers. The moon peers in the window and outlines her face in silver. Forgetting the plot of whatever show he should have been watching, he studies the grace of her simple movements. These are the moments life is made of.  
  
He slips between cold sheets, to her small golden body beside him. Her hands are like feathers, her hands soft like the petals of strange flowers. Her voice is like honey and it can burn. This is how we live, now. To remember want, he makes love to her in an ocean of pale linen. Her cries are perfect and should be recorded for posterity, like the song of an exotic bird. He breathes into her red mouth a swallowed-down shout of loneliness and release that is lost beneath the susurrus of their wildly beating hearts.  
  
Sleep takes them both like a blessing.  
  
He wakes in the darkest hours, weeping, shouting. He looks like violence, like the world undone. His eyes are wide and he trembles. She slides her pale arm across his back and he recoils.  
  
“The war?” She asks.  
  
He buries his face in shadow.  
  
“No.” A whisper, a confession. A revelation.  
  
She says nothing, turns away. Closes her eyes. Remembers how closely love and hatred are tied.  
  
Rocking himself quietly back and forth, he does not wipe away the tears that slip from his eyes. This is for the best. This is moving on.


	10. Nothing to Say

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My first reunion scene, by request. Sherlock is gone, and John has given up speaking.

 

> Time present and time past
> 
> Are both perhaps present in time future,
> 
> And time future contained in time past.
> 
> If all time is eternally present
> 
> All time is unredeemable.
> 
> _\- Burnt Norton, TS Eliot_

It wasn’t intentional. He just hadn't left the flat in a few days, mired down in finishing reports, an avalanche of paperwork he’d taken on after becoming London’s only consulting medical forensics expert. The work has been steady, and it keeps his hours full.

His phone rings, and he picks it up. Opens his mouth to say hello. Nothing comes out. In a flash, he realizes he hasn’t spoken in days. He remembers saying “Ta.” when he was handed his change at Asda. That must have been nearly a week ago. A single syllable. Before that, maybe another four or five days. He doesn’t need to talk. There is nothing to say.

Mary Morstan has been dead five months. John Watson put a bullet in her head after finding out she was, in fact, Mary Moran. Her shots went wide, but John has a history of military service and nerves of steel.

He puts the phone down, feeling strangely absent. Empty. It’s a call-out to a crime scene. He texts in his response.

At the scene, he nods when they tell him the particulars. He smiles once when faced with smalltalk. He doesn’t have much of a reputation as a conversationalist, especially in the past few months. He goes home and writes up his report, emails it in.

Silence begins to settle into John’s bones. No one really notices. Harry is used to her calls being returned with texts, if at all. He no longer turns on the telly to break up the quiet in his tiny flat. He doesn’t talk because there’s nothing to say and no one to say it to, even if he had wanted to speak.

He starts to carry around a small notebook, to jot down things he can’t communicate with a nod or a gesture. It feels right, to be done speaking. To be silent.

Nearly ten months later, his sister finally confronts him.

“John, you can’t just stop talking for no reason. You have to talk.” she insists, after he has scrawled his coffee order in his notebook and showed it to the waitress.

He smiles, a tight little indulgent smile. He’s happy to listen. And usually Harry has so much to say.

“John, really!” She sighs.

He thinks for another moment, writes a single sentence.

_I would prefer not to._

Harry looks tired. He feels old when he looks at her.

“Why? What’s happened? Why won’t you speak?” Her voice softens.

_Nothing. I would just prefer not to._

The conversation goes on, but not for long. When she presses him, he just draws another circle around _I would prefer not to._

With time, the memory of his voice becomes precious, a souvenir of a better time. He does not speak, ever. Even when he’s alone. There’s nothing to say.

Another year passes in this way.

John keeps his gun locked in his desk drawer most days. He hardly ever brings it out, sets it just there, beside his mug of cooling tea. He hardly ever thinks things he shouldn’t think, looking at that piece of metal and plastic. Sometimes he gets out a pen, some paper. Thinks about writing a note. He never writes a note, in the end. What would he say? There’s nothing to say.

Not speaking makes it easy for everything to be over. He doesn’t have to worry about dating, about finding different work.

When Sally Donovan pulls him aside, tells him she has the number of a really excellent psychiatrist, he knows just what to write in response. _I would prefer not to._ Her eyes are sad but she does not insist.

He begins to bet, just a little at first. When he places a wager, he feels something, a stir of worry or shame or fear that burns bright just for a moment. And it feels almost like _something_. Like being alive again.

He does what he needs to do, lives as he can. Wakes early. Works all day from home. Does the shopping. Two small bags from the grocery down the street; his needs are so simple now. Drinks many cups of tea, staring at the starlit sliver of sky visible from his window. Does the washing up. Tries to sleep, the weight of grief and silence nearly crushing him at night. Does it all again the next day.

Except, one day, it doesn’t happen as it should.

He comes in from the cold, pulls off his scarf and gloves. He looks small, and strangely fragile for a man who has survived so much. He doesn’t turn on the lights. Why bother? He knows where everything is, and he’ll just have to turn them off again soon.

Out of the dark room, a voice calls. It is low and sweet, like honey and thunder.

“John. Don’t be afraid.”

He’s not afraid. He’s dying.

 _What? No._ , he thinks as he sinks to his knees. A form appears, an outline in the faint light. _No. It can’t be_. He lifts his hand towards the apparition. He’s having a hard time staying upright, even on his knees. The taller man kneels besides him, and John recoils. _No, no._ But there is no mistaking that voice, or the face now inches from his own. Or the arms now wrapped around him as he can no longer support himself.

Eyes like ice and diamond glitter in the dim light.

“Sherlock?” John’s voice sounds like a radio station lost to static. It sounds like it’s coming from underwater, garbled and strange. His voice sounds like gravel; grainy, as though like it’s traveled through time.

His pain is vast, and it is terrible. Sherlock’s arms around him feel excruciating, impossible, and yet perfect in a way he cannot begin to understand.

Sherlock Holmes is looking down at him, arms around him. Sherlock looks scared, worried, elated, and desperate all at once. He clears his throat. Tries again.

“Sherlock?” his voice full of wonder and fear.

“Yes, John, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry…”

John remembers he has a voice. Suddenly, there is something to say.

“Three years!” he nearly shouts, his voice unearthed, like an incredible find at an archeological dig. He shoves violently against Sherlock, but his hands are shaking. He feels weak. Sherlock only brings him closer, holds him tighter. On his pale, drawn face is a pained look.

“Three years!” John repeats, less angry this time, and fraught with disbelief. He raises his hand again, this time to touch the face before him. When John’s fingers are on the plane of his cheek, his thumb resting near Sherlock’s lips, he begins to weep. The last three years have broken him in ways he still does not know if he can endure. He killed his wife and never shed a tear. Now he is coming apart at the seams.

“John, I have so much to tell -” he’s cut off as John grabs on to the collar of the dove-grey wool coat he’s wearing. Sherlock’s eyes go wide, he’s genuinely frightened and John seems to have snapped out of it.

John tugs him down, close. Kisses him with a hunger born of nearly a thousand nights of silence. Kisses him with urgency, with anger. With love.

But kisses him only briefly, then lets him go. They make a beautiful, strange tableau, the smaller fair-haired man now sitting on the faded carpet, the taller, elegant dark-haired man kneeling over him.

“This isn’t going as I expected.” Sherlock whispers, his voice wavering with an emotion John doesn’t quite catch. Disappointment? Confusion? John’s voice is a key, and it has unlocked something carried deep inside him. John’s voice is rusty, shattered. It tears apart some lens of distance Sherlock has built over his eyes, built between them.

John is trembling, tears slipping down his face.

It feels as though in a moment, Sherlock will leave, and John will return to life as it was before. Perhaps this has been a terrible dream.

Neither man moves. John’s voice feels like a live thing, right there in his throat.

Sherlock leans down, cups John’s face in his hands. Tenderly. Kisses him with intention, with gentle strength. His lips meet John’s with a certain finality, as though he knows he is saying something that can never be undone. John feels as though his racing heart might burst in his chest. He feels lost for a moment as Sherlock’s lips move against his, on unfamiliar territory. Exploring the shape of his mouth. And John returns the kiss, his body remembering how to respond before his mind does. He trusts himself in Sherlock’s arms, leans into Sherlock’s strength. He’s had to be strong for so long.

John is weeping, without realizing it, as they kiss. A strangled sound escapes from Sherlock’s throat and there are the shining tracks of tears down his own face. John tastes mingled salt and sweetness on the lips of the only man he’s ever loved. He pulls away, only to press himself closer to Sherlock, and Sherlock holds him against his slim chest, John’s head cradled in the nook of his neck.

“I never thought I would hear your voice again.” Sherlock says softly, almost to himself.

“Neither did I,” John tries to say, shaking and wiping tears from his eyes. He glances up, into the eyes of a friend that should be long dead. Everything he should have said lingers in the air somewhere. Instead of speaking, he pulls Sherlock closer, into an embrace. Their lips meet again, and this time there is no stopping. All of it brings them together; desire and lust, and years of grief, compounded with wonder and joy.

Sherlock swings one leg around John, so that his long legs surround the smaller man. Soon, though, they are both brought all the way to the floor in a flurry of embraces and kisses. But John is no longer the young man he once was, and Sherlock picks up on his discomfort. Without speaking, he draws them up to standing.

After so long apart, they can’t seem to let each other go. John folds Sherlock into his arms, realizes how thin he feels and this realization makes his heart feel strangely hollow. His nerves are buzzing, but he also feels strangely calm. Strangely right, as if some part of him always knew Sherlock would be coming home to him.

They make their way to John’s bed one fumbling step at a time, in part because there’s nowhere else in the tiny flat, and partly because they both know where this is leading. Between breathless kisses, John asks questions, his voice becoming clearer with use.

“Where were you?” he asks, peeling the soft wool coat from Sherlock’s shoulders.

“Everywhere, John, I’ll tell you everything…” he murmurs, pulling John’s heavy jumper over his head, then dropping it carelessly to the floor.

“Did you...did you think of me?” John hesitates, eyes not meeting Sherlock’s, as he unbuttons a royal blue shirt that nearly hangs off Sherlock’s spare frame. He wanted to ask “Did you miss me?” but it sounded terribly trite, even before he said it aloud.

“Oh John, every day. Always.” He shakes his head, and his voice carries a bit of the old tone, the ‘John-can-be-a-bit-of-an-idiot’ tone John remembers so well. Sherlock slides his hands up John’s bare back, pushing up the tatty t-shirt, whilst still taking slow steps towards the spartan bed.

Once they are there, John’s calves pressing up against the edge of the bed, he hesitates. John is uncertain. So much has happened in the last few moments. Not only is Sherlock not dead, they appear to be doing quite a lot of snogging, and it seems to be going somewhere. His heart is so filled with joy and surprise he can’t believe he’s able to keep living with it. Bliss floods him like a dam has broken somewhere in his heart. He can’t move, he stares up at Sherlock’s face, frozen.

And because Sherlock is Sherlock, he knows. He makes sure John isn’t just staring, but is really seeing him. And he says

“I’m back, John. I’m here. I’m really here. I won’t leave you again.” He holds John close again and pulls them both down into the bed.

The bed is a testament to the many nights John has passed alone. He still makes it when he wakes up, military corners and all. The duvet has gone a bit frayed, but no one sees it. It’s a small bed, just the size for a single person. He did not anticipate ever sharing it again.

They tangle together for a moment, all knees and elbows until John sorts them out. Although it’s been a while, he has much more experience in this area. John’s half-dressed, breathless and still shaking. He notices Sherlock is suppressing a tremble too, which encourages him. Right below the surface, there’s confusion, anger, and a terrifying sense of betrayal he can’t yet articulate, but most prominently is his heart singing love, love, love.

Sherlock is a whole world unto himself, so the rest of the world fades. There is only their bodies moving together, desperate, hungry, and at times, laughingly awkward. Their hands are eager, finally exploring skin they had only ever touched in dreams.

John’s eyes go wide when Sherlock’s fingers slip beneath the waistband of his unbuttoned jeans. It seems that every second, they are crossing barriers that seemed insurmountable. He finds his voice again when long, cool fingers stroke downwards, but the sounds he makes can’t really be considered words in any language. A few light caresses and he comes quickly, with an embarrassed cry. It has been so long since anyone touched him. Sherlock quiets him with his mouth and they go on, making quite a sticky mess of their clothes and the bedsheets. It doesn’t matter, they both laugh, and sigh, because they know somewhere deep in their bones that this is only the beginning of something that was started years and years ago. Something solid and inescapable.

They stay awake many, many hours, talking and laughing, and making love, occasionally weeping. They share the scars the last three years have left on their bodies and hearts, they curse the monster that tore them apart, and they rejoice in the strength that brought them together again. John’s voice is hoarse from speaking by the time he finally begins to drowse, Sherlock’s fingers running through his hair. He has found his voice again, and there is so much to say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm beginning to get back into the swing of things now that I've a little time to write. Thanks so much for all your comments and kudos, they really keep me going!


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